Musings


The most beautiful commentary I have seen on the subject in some time. Also, as ever, in keen good time.

Last night, I slept well and had pleasant dreams. I got up on time, went to the gym where I did not injure myself. The weather is lovely and I am looking forward with eager anticipation to a tournament tomorrow. As such, I have no strong feelings to which I feel the need to give vent. So, I’ll toss something up I wrote a while ago I thought worth revisiting.

This may be, in part, why I loved Garden State so damn much. Probably not, I mean, Zach Braff is totally my imaginary boyfriend, and like, how could I not love his work? But I do love it in the end when he says to Samantha…

“This isn’t a conversation about this being over. I’m not like, putting a period at the end of this. I’m putting like… an ellipsis on it.”

He repents of this quite soon, but I still liked the notion of it. I hate the idea of anything really being irrevocable. I want there to be a chance for anything, to have a little more to say.

And I notice when I look at my posts, just how many of them have ellipsis’ (ellipses? ellipsis’s?) in them. And how this in effect works out as the verbal equivalent of trailing off, which ironically, i almost never ever do. I like to express complete thoughts. Sometimes, they’re a little too complete. Here, let me give you 8 1/2 minutes of exposition you do not need. That was fun wasn’t it!?

But I think when I use them in writing perhaps its more of a come hither than a trailing off. I want to entice you with the slightest hint of things to come. And it seems so much more poetic that way. I mean no wonder I love the ellipsis; all the infinite unsaidness of life can be summed up with three little dots…

WINNING. RULES.

When I took the kids to Pacific in January, I was very pleased with how well we did overall. Seven awards in all, and a fine effort from everyone who attended.

Just today I received the news that we did so well that we earned 2nd place sweepstakes in our division! It’s an incredibly tough challenge, especially for such a young team. I am tremendously proud of everyone for all their efforts.

Plus, trophy.

 

 

 

 

Will Brezsny writes the best horoscopes around. This week he tells me:

 

In his song “4th of July, Asbury Park (Sandy),” Bruce Springsteen mentions a disappointing development. “That waitress I was seeing lost her desire for me,” he sings. “She said she won’t set herself on fire for me anymore.” I’m assuming nothing like that has happened to you recently, Scorpio. Just the opposite: I bet there are attractive creatures out there who would set themselves on fire for you. If for some reason this isn’t true, fix the problem! You have a cosmic mandate to be incomparably irresistible.

Perhaps I’ll leave a trail of tinder in my wake…

 

 

Kinetic energy introduced into an open system will be transferred with diminishing force as friction acts upon it. Additionally, counter-velocity may also serve to bring established momentum to a halt. Any attempt to regulate outcomes within a system – almost by necessity – must be accompanied by a concerted effort to minimize novel influences upon said system.

 

But sometimes isolation undermines conditions within the system in unpredictable ways.

 

Moreover it is not always possible, nor even desirable, to achieve true sequestration. Without neoteric stimuli, systemic stagnation is inevitable. Additionally, while much can be observed and understood by appreciating a system fortified against external influence, there can be no means by which to permanently inure against all intervention of the unexpected. Indeed, to best discern the true tolerances of any system, it must be subjected to scrutiny under a variety of elemental variances.

 

 

The data is derived both at strike and in swing

The data is derived both at strike and in swing

 

The Physics of Truth; the Truth of Physics. These means by which wisdom is won.

 

 

 

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For the science types among you; relax, it’s just a fucking metaphor

If you would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in your life you doubt, as far as possible, all things. ~Rene Descartes

Critical thinking does not come naturally to all men in their turn. To engage with the world at face value alone seems de rigueur, if not in any way sufficient to the purpose of genuine understanding.

To look past the cursory in pursuit of a more authentic engagement with truth requires curiosity, imagination, and courage. How much easier – and more comforting – it is to cling to the simple illusory version of the possible, rather than challenging every assumption presented, each truism enacted, every limitation extolled.

The function of doubt in its ideal form is progressive; to approach with a mind open to possibility at purest. No single explanation is either accepted by default or dismissed out of hand. All considerations are weighed for merit, turned on their head, spun around on their axis. The mettle of an idea tempered and tested in the crucible of a mind truly alight.

Yet how insidious the adulteration of doubt when it creeps into the interstices and undermines that which we have already toiled to make settled precedent. As worthy a task as it is to question everything, to do so endlessly without the comfort of any decided truth is to run ragged the very means by which we hope to identify what truth can be; that way lies madness.

 

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I’ve always had a rather combative relationship with sleep.

For most of my life, I simply couldn’t. The combination of a neurological condition causing the underproduction of the hormone that paralyzes the body for sleep and an extremely disruptive domestic scene made sleep elusive and occasionally unsafe.

I rarely dreamed, since I was nearly incapable of getting deeply asleep enough to enter REM. When I did, my dreams were often bizarre and vivid, though I was always readily able to identify they were not my waking reality. I found them amusing; never troubling.

When I was diagnosed and treated for my condition, one of the first things I experienced was a full night’s rest. It was a revelation. Seeing the world through eyes that hadn’t spend half the night pointed at the ceiling was stunning, and literally changed my life. I was not so profoundly restless, thought processes were less convoluted, coping mechanisms more effective.

And then the dreams began.

The medication I take makes me sleep. I don’t just mean it allows me to sleep, I mean it makes clinging to wakefulness impossible. It sends me down into an abyss I have never before known. And while I linger there, I dream.

From rarely doing so at all that I remember, I now dream virtually every night. They are compelling, all encompassing, and occasionally exhausting. I often find myself confronted with the mundane cast in absurd proportions, or visiting scenes from the past that have long since faded in my conscious memory – only to become vivid enough to cling to me all through my daytime hours.

Then, for long months now, there are nights where I am engulfed. Swept over by fear, vulnerability, and despair. I am slow-moving and subject to unspeakable cruelty; unable to rise to my own defense. Replaying moments of heartbreak, helplessness, and hurt in such powerful terms that I awaken as though these deeds were fresh; unhealed anew.

It is enough to make me wonder if the solace I had found in sleep might not be a fickle thing; not meant for me, after all. How, perhaps it would be better to go back to the sharp and weary way of staring at the shadows as they play on the wall overhead.

 

Probably my new favorite photo of me.

 

I really miss my hair.

 

I like to consider myself a critical thinker with an open mind. I like to approach new ideas with curiosity and gusto; to welcome new information without it threatening my worldview in a personally distressing way.

And so, this morning, when I was sent a link to this article to read – by someone who believed he was being flirtatious ­– I decided to take a look despite raising an eyebrow at both the language and inherent assumptions conveyed in the title.

The Under F**ked Pussy Epidemic (Every Woman Needs To Read This!!)

As a sex-positive person, I like to think that ideally, everyone will get what they came for. As a realist, I understand there are lots of social, cultural, and personal barriers to that happening on a regular basis for many people. The fact that the article seemed – at least at first blush – to be trying to remedy this, I wanted to see what insight the author brought to bear.*

 However, I wasn’t even able to get past the title before being confronted with the author’s deliberately provocative use of both “pussy” and “fu**ed” Presuming a mature audience, I question both her use of the colloquial term for vagina, and her unwillingness to spell out the word “fuck.” Couched together in this way it seemed geared specifically to be titillating and shocking. I supposed I wasn’t aware that “soft-core self help” was a genre? Choosing to do so was simultaneously intellectually offensive and personally off-putting. Even moreso was the author’s exhortation “every woman needs to read this!!!” As though, naturally, all women are having the same problems expressing themselves or being satisfied sexually. Despite this, I forged ahead looking for something that might offer a new or meaningful insight in the author’s canon.

Alas, it was not to be. Apart from the style of writing which strayed from the tone of “You Go Girl” fauxminism, to a condescending “Why Can’t Women Just Learn To Speak Their Mind” lament, I was pointedly offended by the unwaveringly heterocentric tone of the piece.

That unspeakable being that she needs to be f-ked wide open by a man that can penetrate not only her flesh but her heart and soul. She needs his strength, his firmness, his masculine energy to be unleashed in her at a cellular level and TAKE her beyond the point of no return and right into the heavens of rapture. Only at this level can she trust her man and allow herself once again to be seen.

So, lesbians aren’t allowed to have gratifying orgasms? How are they supposed to access that “strength” and “firmness?” Is this something they can do with latex? How are the lesbians going to trust and be seen???

Moving along, we are then scolded that we must, “Ask for what you sexually want and need” as though, that’s really all there is to it. Like, “Listen, honey, if you could just open your mouth and articulate exactly what you want instead of being a verbally frigid ninny then the most life-changing, depression-healing, relationship cementing orgasms WILL BE YOURS!”  

Given the puritanical, patriarchal, sex-averse culture in which we are embedded, that should be super simple; if you weren’t such an uptight twat.

But let us not forget the men, and their all important – indeed inextricable – duty in this exchange. She quotes:

Keep asking until you feel her true desire release. You will feel it in your body when she finally lets go. Regardless of how much resistance she has, don’t stop asking until you feel it. You are helping her unravel a lifetime of conditioning – old beliefs and habits and rules that are suffocating the bright, lovely, sexy woman within.

Ask until she says yes! Ignore her resistance! You are healing her from all that pesky personal preference and autonomy she’s been told she gets to have her whole life! Nevermind what she says Pish tosh! No means ask until she changes her answer! Such an elegant invitation to sexual assault, I have never heard.

I am offended at the pseudo-psychological, pop-trash, woman shaming tone of this piece. I am offended that this is being proffered as an earnest exhortation to sexual liberation.  I am offended that our current cultural paradigm promotes this kind of thinking all the time.

I’m all in a lather, now. Just thinking about it. Probably not the kind this would-be suitor intended….

*This entire article is so profoundly misguided, misinformed, and misogynistic I had some trouble believing a woman wrote it. Looking at the photo attached to the author’s Bio and seeing a creature that looked decidedly post-operative did nothing to diminish this impression.

Because there’s no greater authority on what a pussy needs, than someone who had to work extra-hard to get theirs.

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